


The Darkest Places

by Sarie_Fairy



Series: Secret Sex [2]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, F/M, MSR, Secret Sex, Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:48:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23213530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarie_Fairy/pseuds/Sarie_Fairy
Summary: This fic was originally in my one-shots, and as its nearly 3000 words and didn't quite fit there, so maybe you've already read it.
Relationships: Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Series: Secret Sex [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1668976
Comments: 14
Kudos: 95





	The Darkest Places

**Author's Note:**

> A prompt from the lovely [Baroness_Blixen](https://www.archiveofourown.org/users/Baroness_Blixen)
> 
> “I shouldn’t be in love with you.”

Being an FBI Agent was not an easy job. It was physically demanding, and agents frequently put their lives on the line. Danger and the unknown were a part of the package. Never knowing what the next case would entail, where it would be, or how long their normal existence would be put on hold for. If they even had a normal existence.

It could be emotionally taxing too. That part was possibly the lesser-known aspect. The lesser talked about at least. After particularly atrocious cases, counselling was offered, sometimes required. The need for that service and the number of times it was offered did not match up. Not by a long shot. So, agents would frequently have to figure out how to deal with that part privately.

Agent Fox Mulder would run, put on his trainers and run; away from the figurative monsters. When the darkness would threaten to invade the corners of his counterpart, Agent Dana Scully's mind, she would fill it with new information. Research and write dissertations. Push the horrors away, leaving no space in which they could haunt her.

Sometimes, those practices were enough.

Sometimes the shadows were harder to shake.

At times these two agents would find solace in the bottom of mini-bar bottles. Scully, the occasional cigarette, a throwback from med school; ironically, the student doctors and nurses, on average, bigger smokers than the rest of the university student body.

On a couple of very rare occasions, they had found the escape in one another. Three occasions before, to be exact. Each time was fast and heated and not a word was spoken. They left each other quickly after. Slept alone in their own hotel beds. Never spoke of it.

The last time had been a few months prior.

…

It was late. Past 11 when Scully exited her room in her robe, in search of a cigarette machine. They had been called to a small town, by the local authorities, to help with a case of murdered children. A few days after each child went missing, an image of them would appear, burned into a different tree in the local cemetery. Within 12 hours, the child would be found. Dead.

Mulder hadn't spoken a word in the car ride back to the hotel after the latest victim turned up deceased too. Their first since they had been assigned the case. A misplaced responsibility had begun to invade him, and he was beginning to disappear into his profiler's mind. Scully equally as quiet, having only hours before completed an autopsy on the victim.

They were staying in a motor inn. Had been there three days already. Their rooms side by side, six rooms in their section of the accommodation, all opening onto a shared porch with stairs at the end down to reception and parking area. She looked at Mulder's door as she walked past - fresh packet of Morleys in hand. She was worried about him, but also knew that he had a process and she probably just needed to leave him alone. Besides, she was battling her own demons tonight. Autopsying children was some kind of seventh hell she would never get used to.

Scully was thankful her room was the last door at the opposite end of the porch to the stairs, and that the light outside her room was broken. She tucked herself into the darkness and lent over the rail, raising a freshly acquired cigarette to her lips. She sighed as she dug into her robe pocket for her lighter. She had the heavy, awful feeling of having somehow fucked up today. She knew Mulder carried that cross, but she felt it too, as entwined as they were. She couldn't put her finger on where or how, so admonishing herself was proving a chore.

Fighting against the useless emotions, she flicked the flint once under her thumb, lighting her features orange against the dark. The tip of the paper crackled and blazed hot-red for a second, as she sucked air into her lungs through the fresh-tasting tobacco. Held the smoky haze inside and willed herself to breathe out the god-awful day along with the cloud of toxic smoke. She closed her eyes.

Scully loved the smell of cigarette packets. It reminded her of that tiniest piece of herself, that belonged only to her. A first glimpse of that Dana when she snuck her mother's cigarettes as a teenager. A decision made wholly by herself. And again, in college when she would freely smoke in bars. No judgemental parents or one particular older sibling, around to try and mould her. She didn't know and didn't care if it was that _feeling_ she chased or the relaxing drug when she had a rare cigarette. Either way, it worked.

She made a plan to smoke two, though she'd already showered, run a bath (uncommon in FBI afforded motor inns, and she was going to take advantage of it), attempt to masturbate, and let that push her into sleep. Maybe a small bottle of bourbon from the mini-bar if she needed it. As she was concocting her poorly drawn up psychological remedy, she heard the door to Mulder's room open. He stepped out with purpose, a tumbler of ice and amber liquid clinking in his hand. He moved over to the rail and went to rest his elbows there. He glanced over towards her door, but his eyes landed on her first, looking over at him.

They'd done this dance enough times before that she didn't even bother to try and hide her cigarette or look guilty about it. He understood that she wasn't addicted and that it was a very rare occurrence that she had granted herself absolution from, so why shouldn't he. And quite frankly it thrilled him slightly to be offered evidence that his partner was not, in fact, perfect.

They shared a look. The same look that told of the horror of the day and the difficulty they were both having ending it. Even though the sun had decided the day was over hours ago, and in less than an hour, the clock would turn things over to tomorrow. Their minds had no such luxury. No such kill switch.

He walked into her shadowy corner. A small glow from her cigarette afforded him the sight of her. A raw, wildness he'd seen a few times before, and currently felt coursing through his own veins. A murky darkness that had attached itself to them both on this case. He held two fingers out in front of him, and she handed him her cigarette, took the offered glass from his hand. They turned, faced the road beyond a line of trees. He took a puff, and she put the glass to her lips, looked across at him and took a gulp. She screwed up her face and held the drink for him to take back. They swapped again before consuming their proffered release of choice. They stood. Quietly. So close their arms were pressed together.

He gently pushed himself into her. Nudged her. A silent question as to her state of being.

She shook her head. Swiped her cheek on her shoulder, removing the silent tears that she only then became aware of. Not sure when they started.

He noticed.

"Hey, hey, hey…" He cooed gently at her as he put his now empty glass down on the handrail. He moved behind her, engulfing her in a hug, his head resting in the crook of her neck. She breathed deeply and let her head fall back between his head and shoulder. They breathed there together in sync. Slow and deep. Blinking languidly. She took another drag and then held it for him to do the same. His lips touched her fingers as he sucked back on the orange filter. He breathed out the smoke as she studied the last of the cigarette in her fingers, taking one last draw and dropping the butt into his glass.

His lips found the soft place where her shoulder becomes her neck. Lightly rested them there. Breathed hot air onto her smooth, soft, skin.

"Today was fucking awful," he said in an undertone, allowing his lips to kiss her. His tongue to quietly taste her. She let her eyes close, and his voice sink into her skin like a salve, soothing a little of the day's callus from her.

She bit her lip, an almost undetectable nod propelled her head to turn to him. He lifted; their faces so close. She slowly inched closer still. Hovered her lips over his mouth. Let her jaw fall open and her lips part. Her tongue slipped out, quickly swept along his bottom lip. His mouth open to the sensation as his lips met hers and his tongue pushed into her hot mouth. Their tongues swirled inside, meeting there and tasting the smoky tar and sweet liquor. His hand moved to the back of her head to hold her as they kissed. Finding their way from the place where this all felt so wrong to where it all felt so fucking right. Her hand fell to his cheek, and they gripped one another. Held onto each other and onto the kiss. Their faces tilted and their connection deepened. Lips and tongues and whimpers. Licking and lapping and tasting.

He was still leaning over her, head turned in, her back flush against the front of him, neck craned to meet his face. His hips bent into her at the same angle as hers bent forward, his groin cupping her arse. She arched her lower back. Pressed herself into his rapidly firming cock. She moaned, and he understood.

He broke their kiss, glanced around the dark, deserted motor inn. The front office light across the parking lot was off, and the road beyond the trees was quiet. They were all but obscured by darkness at the end of the porch. Their own alternate reality existing only between them, in the opaque blackness of the spaces between words. Between conversations and tailored suits. Between raised guns and wounded flesh. Their own private indentation in the fabric of the universe. A nook in which to hide and find one another.

He moved his hand up under her robe and found the waistband of her pyjamas, pulled them down, grabbing her underwear as his finger brushed over them too. She leaned her torso on the handrail. Lifted her feet one by one to allow her clothing to pool underneath her. She moved a hand behind her and found his hip, affirmed him as he bounced his cock over the top of his boxers. He held himself in one hand and dragged his other, from just under her knee, where her robe fell, up her leg, trailed along her satin skin, up the inside of her thigh, found her moist and slippery.

"Oh god," was spoken. She blinked, a slight flinch. Not at his touch. She was aching for him to fill her. At his voice. The three other times they had done this, it had been fast and feverish, and they had not uttered a single syllable. Not even after. It was in the dark and clothed; a secret without words, a dream place she could visit, but pretend didn't actually exist.

Words made it more tangible, and Scully didn't want to think about how she felt about this. About him. Scully didn't ever really want to think about how she felt about anything. Her modus operandi; to pragmatically plough ahead. Work. And if there was a lack of casework, she would create it and write a paper. Didn't think about her feelings towards her attractive partner. Work. Eat. Sleep. Occasionally call her mother, brothers. She would care for Mulder, physically, but by fuck didn't want to complicate things by loving him … didn't want to complicate things by admitting that, in fact, she already did love him … didn't want to complicated things by having to admit she had actually already fucked him, after a few particularly heinous cases. And then masturbated to those memories almost nightly since.

She squeezed her eyes closed and opened her legs. Parted them as his fingers ran deftly between her folds, smearing her arousal over her. She might have spoken herself then, had she not, at that exact moment, felt him push up into her. Holding both her hips in his large, elegant hands, pulling her down.

She held the rail, and he held her. Began to pump. Pushed and pulled himself into and out of her. She was wet but tight. Not yet loosened to his size, but the pain was exquisite. She felt the day fall off her with every pulse of his cock inside her. With every puff of his hot affirming breath in her hair. With every erotic grunt from his exertions.

"Fuck Scully..," he panted into her ear, "…god you feel amazing."

She turned and kissed him. Kissed the words out of his mouth.

"Mulder, don't talk. Please."

"I think about this all the time, Scully" he rocked harder into her, "about you … _us._ "

She stole another kiss from him, tried to halt any more words that might come out of his mouth. They don't talk while they do this. Don't talk about this. This is that snuck cigarette, that slug of bourbon, Mulder running 'til his lungs burned, a long bath and self-gratification. This was a secret, a release, not a conversation. Ever.

"You shouldn't talk." She managed. Trying to stay within her world of escape.

She squeezed her eyes shut, tried to speed up his thrusts with her own hip movements. But he slowed.

She opened her eyes, turned and looked. Found him there looking back at her. Mulder. Just Mulder. Not angst-ridden, not hiding or trying to disappear into her. Just him.

"I shouldn't talk…" He said. Rhetorically she discovered as one of his hands pushed its way up under her clothes, found her breast. "And I shouldn't be in love with you either," he growled into her ear, punctuating his words with sharp pinches to her nipple. "But there you have it."

She was shaking her head.

"No, Mulder." She turned, hung onto the rail again. Squeezed her own hand over his on her breast. "Please just fuck me. Make it go away. Take this awful day away."

He stopped talking. Sped up. Moved his fingers around to find her clit. Began to delicately tease her there; a juxtaposition to the ferocity with which he was now shoving his cock into her. Pumping, slamming himself into her as she moaned. She threw her head back onto his shoulder.

He pulled her onto him, grabbing her flush against him. His hand roughly at her breast, his other circling and rubbing. She moved an arm up over her head, gripped around his neck, face turned to him. She held the rail with her other hand as her body bumped with the pounding of his hips to her arse. Over and again. She was on the edge, the swell of his cock throbbing inside of her told he was right there beside her. Their lips crashed onto one another's. Stole the sounds that threatened to spill into the black night. Filling each other with their mutual ecstasy. They rode it out as one. Pulsing, and heaving, liquid bodies melding together. Hot arousal spilling into her and out of her.

He held her tight, slowing pumping his semi-hard cock up into her slippery cunt; the remnants of her rapture vibrating through her.

He withdrew and pulled his T-shirt over his head and balled it up. She turned her head back to watch him, her hands still steady on the rail. He ran the shirt up her thigh, gently wiped between her legs; swollen and dripping, down the other leg. Swiped away their combination of desire. Of release.

He kissed the back of her neck.

"I meant it," he said as he ran a hand affectionately over her hair. Kissed her lips. Pressed his mouth to hers, probably too hard, their lips pushed back against their chins. "…every word."

He straightened up. Stood and walked back towards his room. Left her there with his words remaining in the air between them. She not ready to absorb them. Wanting to stay in the place in between. An abstraction of the truth he just offered her.

She continued to look at him as he lingered at his door. He opened his mouth to speak…

"I'll wait … as long as it takes." He looked at her in case she had something to say.

Nothing.

He turned and went inside. All but closed the door behind him. No click. No lock.

She idled in the parallel. The unspoken space ripped from her without permission. Breathed in deep. Closed her eyes against the soft glow from the illumination of Mulder's outdoor light.

She bent, scooped up her pyjamas from the wood beneath her feet. Scrunched the delicate material and shoved it into one of her pockets. Poked her hand into the other and retrieved the packet. She flipped the top, slid a fresh cigarette from its place nestled amongst the others, that may all be consumed during this case. As was not usually the event, normally the pain and emotions required a few before the packet would be discarded, almost entirely full, into the hotel trash on the way to check out.

She put it to her lips and flicked the lighter, twice before the glow of the flame lit up her face. She held it out in front of the tip. Paused and turned back towards Mulder's door. Ajar. Hesitated. Her thumb let go, and the flame died. She clung for a moment. Tried to hang onto the unattached release for a spell.

Then she decided.

Tucked the items back into her robe and walked across to his door.

She went inside.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading my stories, and please always feel free to comment 😘


End file.
